


This Strange Sweetness

by KannaOphelia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1980s, 5 Times, 5+1 Things, A lot of gratuitous pear imagery, Adversaries who are really best friends to lovers, Ancient Rome, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Not Oblivious (Good Omens), Because Aziraphale likes pears, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Fluff, Happy Ending, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Mixing book and TV canon when and how I feel like it, Mutual Pining, Regency, Romance, Sappy, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), So much kissing, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Stuart Restoration England, They are so in love, This is really just self-indulgent sweetness, You Have Been Warned, really sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22923757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia
Summary: Five times Aziraphale and Crowley denied being a couple, and one time they didn't.  Five times they parted, and one time they didn't.And six times Crowley tasted pears in Aziraphale's kiss.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 350
Kudos: 532
Collections: Poker in a Pitch Dark Room: Multichapter Ineffable Husbands fic by KannaOphelia





	1. Eden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LilithReisender](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilithReisender/gifts).



> Prompted by LilithReisender, when I wanted to post some sheer unadulterated fluff after a draining day.

Aziraphale wasn't sure how long he had been a Principality. Time hadn't been invented until a few days ago, or was it weeks, or decades? All of the bits pre-Time, creation of the angelic realms and the Earth and the First War, blurred together in his mind a bit. He was quite grateful for that. The War was quite unpleasant to recall, not to mention the Expulsion that followed.

The Garden was far more interesting. Things _grew_ in the Garden, and one could _eat_ things in it. Outside was the Wilderness, which was also quite interesting, but the Garden was more comfortable. It had the humans, nice young things that they were, and animals, and the Serpent.

Aziraphale knew quite well that the Serpent was a demon. That meant it was the Enemy, of course, but also that it was a sibling. It was also the only other being in the Garden that could talk. That meant it was valuable company when Adam and Eve were preoccupied with each other, which they were quite a lot lately.

Now, for example.

"I mean, what are they _doing?_ That's all I'm saying," hissed the Serpent, its head extending down from the pear tree Aziraphale was sitting under. The Serpent had not in fact been saying anything at all, and Aziraphale had not been conscious of its presence. Aziraphale was beginning to realise that launching into conversations in the middle, as if the Serpent had been imagining the angel's part, was one of its idiosyncrasies. "They're not grooming each other, and they're not eating each other, so why do they keep pressing their mouths together?"

"I'm not sure, really," Aziraphale said. "It's called kissing. Something to do with making new humans."

"Weeping would be more traditional," said the Serpent.

"They seem quite happy." Aziraphale dubiously considered the humans. "They love each other very much, I can feel it. I mean, you don't _have_ to weep to create new life. I," he added rather smugly, "was created out of pure and perfect ether."

"Good for you. Michael bawled me out. Do you think they'll get into trouble for kissing?" the Serpent asked hopefully.

"No, I don't. Whyever should they? She _wants_ them to make new humans."

"Pity. I was told to get up here and make some trouble, but it's hard to think of much they can get up to in a garden."

"I'm sure She has thought of every consideration to thwart your wiles," Aziraphale said primly.

"Oh, come off it. I'm just doing my job, same as you. Gotta test them. Wonder why?"

"It's all part of the Great Plan." Aziraphale bit into another pear to signal the end of the conversation. He knew quite well that he was probably falling into the Serpent's lures by discussing the Plan in the first place. He thought about food instead. The pear was quite the most delicious thing he had tasted in the Garden so far. Sweet, and something pure and clean about it, the skin firm and the inside bursting with deliciousness. You could trust a pear.

"You've got juice running down your chin," the Serpent said in a tone Aziraphale didn't quite understand. Its tongue flickered out, tasting the scent.

"So I do. It's delectable. Want to try it?"

Aziraphale held out the fruit. The Serpent seemed to misunderstand because it flickered its tongue out again and sampled the juice on his skin.

Aziraphale felt embarrassed. He wasn't sure why. Embarrassment was a new emotion, and he wasn't quite sure how to deal with it. He just wanted it to go away, and the best measure, he thought, spinning the half-eaten pear by the stem, was to pretend nothing had unsettled him. "Do you approve?"

"Very much," said the Serpent, and it uncoiled itself down from the tree and pooled in Aziraphale's lap. Only it wasn't a Serpent pooling in his lap, it was a vaguely Adam-shaped entity, with sharp cheekbones and robes that would have been angelic if they had reflected the light instead of absorbing it, and wide feathery wings. Only the eyes, yellow and round, reflected the other form.

All right. So the Enemy was sitting on Aziraphale's lap, arms over his shoulders, grinning into his face. No need to panic or smite or anything, and in any case he had left his flaming sword over on that tussock when he went to pick fruit, so a fight might not be the best idea.

Gosh, this form of the Serpent was pretty.

"Maybe that's what they were doing," said the Serpent, and leaned in. Its lips brushed Aziraphale's for a moment, and then a tongue slid into the angel's, tasting the juice, gone almost as soon as it entered. "Delicious."

"Oh," said Adam's voice, "did She make you a lover too, Aziraphale?"

"Absolutely not," Aziraphale said, shaking off his dazed feeling, and went to shove the Serpent off his lap. It was already gone, though, sliding off into the flowers in its snake form. Aziraphale could almost swear it was sniggering.

He could almost swear -- no, he knew. When Adam and Eve were together, he could feel the warm sweet swelling of their love, an echo of Her love, but somehow different in quality, different from the way they loved Aziraphale and he loved them. A love that was special to each other.

When the Enemy had kissed him, Aziraphale had felt a faint stirring of that same kind of love coming from it.

That was inexplicable enough. What was even less explicable was that his own heart had seemed to _recognise_ the love and respond in kind. It made no sense. Had he known the Serpent before the Fall? What was its real name again? Surely, if he had _loved_ the poor fallen creature, in a way different to loving the other angels who of course Aziraphale loved very much even if they could be a bit overbearing at times, Aziraphale would recognise it now.

It was going to worry him all morning.


	2. Tamed Snake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Remarkably clever snake," Aziraphale said, doubtfully and with growing suspicion.
> 
> "It's the incarnation of the Serpent of Eden," his guide said reproachfully. "Naturally, it's intelligent. It's the source of all human knowledge, you know."
> 
> "I'm so sorry, of course. Do go on."

"So this breakaway sect, the Ossites, was it?1 Or was it the Johnsites? They revere the Serpent of Eden?"

"You seem very interested in these heretics, Aziraphale." Hippolytus helped himself to some honeyed pears.

"It's an interesting idea, that's all," Aziraphale said carefully, turning a slice of pear over in his fingers. The honey glistened on the yellow surface, rich and tempting. "After all, I suppose the Serpent did bring knowledge and freedom to the humans, if you think of it like that."

"They associate the Serpent with the Christos. I'm not sure if they think they are the same entity, or if the Serpent guided Him."

 _I showed him all the countries of the world._ "It's not as strange an idea as you might think." He bit into the pear, tasting the honey and the sharpness, remembering that first kiss in Eden. "I might visit them."

"Ah, Aziraphale. Always the curious scholar. Remember to bring me back some material for my refutation of heresies."

"Of course," Aziraphale said sweetly, with no intention of doing anything of the kind.

Besides. What an amusing story to tell Crawly -- _Crowley_ \-- the next time they met up. He would be tickled pink. Or maybe not. The dear creature was vain enough already, and besides, being associated with Heavenly work would be bad for his reputation with his bosses.

* * *

Aziraphale stood with the members of the sect, trying to look politely interested and not at all bored or embarrassed. He was remembering why he rarely did this kind of thing. Human religious ceremonies and practices were like prophets: fascinating and creative in theory and in books, and mortifying when he was present as a literal messenger of God. It was like being an undercover priest at an orgy.

Not that She sent messages through Aziraphale since the sword incident. Besides not think about that too much.

Was he so desperate for a sight of Crowley that he climbed this dirty hot mountain just to have an excuse to see him and tell him about it? It had only been a few years since he had felt that golden blossom of love flowering into light and fragrance around the demon, had felt the _comradely_ brush of demon lips against his. No reason to be needy.

"So the snake comes up onto the table and kind of rolls around in the bread?"

"Yes. It knows what is expected of it."

"Remarkably clever snake," Aziraphale said, doubtfully and with growing suspicion.

"It's the incarnation of the Serpent of Eden," his guide said reproachfully. "Naturally, it's intelligent. It's the source of all human knowledge, you know."

"I'm so sorry, of course. Do go on."

"Then the bread becomes the body of Christ." Aziraphale shuddered, remembering that kind, clever young man's body being tortured and killed and that he had been forbidden to intervene. Unpleasant. "And we kiss the snake's mouth."

Aziraphale let his jaw drop. "It _lets_ you?"

"Indeed! It knows its role in the ritual. It has been trained."

Aziraphale squinted at the ground. There were patterns traced on the dirt. He hadn't paid them much attention, because inventing patterns and pretty pictures and deciding they had religious or magical meaning was just a human quirk. It was this imagination thing they had, like a tiny version of the Almighty's power of creation.

The problem was some symbols were real, ethereal or occult inventions designed to foster communication through the three realms. Sometimes humans stumbled on them. Aziraphale wasn't really up to date on what worked Down There. His usual method of summoning a demon was to invite Crowley for a tipple. He couldn't read the symbols at all.

The ritual began, and Aziraphale repressed a half fond, half irritated sniff as the huge snake slid out. Really. To think that these idiots actually had managed to entrap the Serpent of Eden.

The snake danced in the bread, quite gracefully. Aziraphale couldn't tell if it was currently self-aware or not. He wasn't sure if he hoped it was or not. Either way, he was clearly going to have to do something about this. He couldn't leave poor Crowley stuck there. The demon would get in terrible trouble if his bosses knew he'd let humans enslave him.

The cult members stepped forward, and the snake raised its head to be kissed. Aziraphale felt an uncomfortable twinge watching all those humans kiss Crowley, especially if Crowley was in no position to consent.

"Will you kiss the Serpent?" Aziraphale's guide asked.

"I suppose I must," Aziraphale sighed. He stepped into the circle, and the snake lifted its head. No sign of intelligence in the golden eyes. No feeling of infernal power or love radiating from it.

But Aziraphale would know Crowley anywhere. He stooped and pressed a kiss on the serpent's mouth.

Aziraphale was dimly aware of the restraining circle flaming into dust around him, as the scaly mouth became soft and pliant, lips grew and parted, a hand reached up to cup his neck as a still divided tongue slid into his mouth and passed, just once, over his own tongue, and a familiar feeling of love exploded into his senses.

"Hullo, angel." Crowley, naked and kneeling on his heels on the table, grinned at him. "Thankssss. Do you know you still taste of pears?"

"Our visitor is Lady Eve, lover of the serpent!" cried one of the elders.

"I most certainly am _not_ , you ridiculous human, and the Serpent wasn't interested in Eve in that kind of way," Aziraphale said, irritated. He turned back to Crowley. "Dear boy, would you please materialise some clothes? You're quite distracting like that."

"Really?" Crowley gave him a delighted wink.

"Put on some clothes, you're scaring the humans," Aziraphale corrected, blushing.

"You know," Crowley said slowly, "they don't appear to be particularly scared. More like pissed off that you freed their snake. And I'm on notice that I'm not allowed a new corporation for the next three hundred years after the fuss with the rabbits last time."

Aziraphale dragged his eyes away from the thin body in front of him and took in the sudden appearances of knives and sticks. He did so dislike paperwork, and there were bound to be awkward questions about why he had discorporated in the presence of a demon. He was sure he could come up with a suitable excuse, but it was easier to avoid the question altogether. Of course, he could put them all to sleep or something, but that would be sure to draw Gabriel's attention.

Crowley slipped a hand into his. It still felt cool and slightly scaly, as if he had been trapped as a Serpent for a long time.

"Run?" Crowley whispered.

"Run," Aziraphale agreed, and hand in hand, angel and demon ran for it.

1 It was. Interesting group of Christian Gnostics with complicated beliefs about Satan and Sophia. ↩


	3. Wassailing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King Charles II has restored the monarchy, the Puritans are out, and Christmas is back in. It's Twelfth Night. Time to get sozzled in a South Downs orchard, wassailing pear trees with a demon "friend".

> Wassail the trees, that they may bear
> 
> You many a plum and many a pear:
> 
> For more or less fruits they will bring,
> 
> As you do give them Wassailing.

"Should have known I'd find you here." An arm looped over Aziraphale's shoulder, love falling over him like warm lamplight from behind a suddenly opened door. "Any excuse for public drunkenness and debauchery, you old sot."

"I'm here to provide my blessing. On orders." It wasn't technically a lie. After all, Gabriel had pointed out rather sternly that Aziraphale had been spending far too much time passing as human and not enough time actually doing angelic things. Blessing trees to bear fruit counted as angelic if he squinted. A good harvest would mean good cider and Perry, better income in the area, and happy, less worried people sinned less out of wrath and hunger. The entire area would be a touch more virtuous

Over the last few centuries, sharing jobs with Crowley, Aziraphale had picked up quite a few tips about bulk temptation and applied them in the opposite direction, as it were. More efficient, and much less inconvenience to the humans than all that mucking around with visions.

Besides, Aziraphale really liked mulled and spiced perry.1

He didn't mention that there were groups out wassailing in every village in England and Scotland that grew tree fruit, in an explosion of relief that the Black Boy, in claiming his throne, had brought back Christmas festivities with him. Yet Crowley had known to find him in an unremarkable village in the South Downs, where salt tanged the air.

Demon and angel made their way through the trees with the procession. Everyone had consumed quite a lot of cider by now, and the procession was increasingly hilarious, the light snow churned to mud by stomping feet. The two of them went unnoticed in the general merriness and singing. They were not the only men with arms clutched around each other's shoulders out of boisterousness or manly affection. Nothing to draw attention to them walking close together.

Aziraphale relaxed and leaned into Crowley's embrace a little rather than pushing away.

He could hear Crowley's startled reaction, a hiss of hitched breath. And feel it, too, the thin body held slightly more stiffly beside him, the fingers digging more tightly into his shoulder as if afraid he would pull away after all. Aziraphale wanted to tell him it was all right, there was nothing about two beings who were apparently tipsy and apparently men in an orchard on Twelfth Night that would draw the attention of Heaven or Hell. Perhaps Aziraphale was actually a little tipsy, because he put an arm around Crowley's waist, as if to support a drunk friend.

He cast a sidelong look at the serpent. Crowley was dressed in a warm fur-lined cloak that blurred the lines of his slim figure. Long, fashionable curls spilled out of the hood. He looked androgynous and lovely, a dark spirit-like thing in all this colour and noise.

"Want some help blessing these orchards?" Crowley's voice was elaborately casual. "I still owe you for those demonic appearances when that idiot in Germany kept summoning me by, you know. That name."

 _Botis_ , Aziraphale thought. Sometimes he desperately tried to remember if there had been a Botis in his existence from before. How could he be sure, though? They had all looked so different, back then. There would be no mobile eyebrows, no defined tendons and Adam's apple flexing and moving under the skin of the pillar of his neck, the way the corners of the long mouth tucked down or up, the flashing dimples, the expressive arms, the lisp and hiss of his voice. As if Crowley made up for hiding his eyes by turning his entire body into a means of expression. None of the things that added up in Aziraphale's head to _Crowley_ had existed back then. A different name, a different being. _So why did I already love him on the Wall? Why did he so simply and naturally love me?_

Why question it? If it hadn't been part of the Plan, Aziraphale was sure he wouldn't have felt it. If God had blamed them for being affectionate friends, Aziraphale would have been struck down long ago. It was only their immediate superiors who would not understand.

He pulled his mind back to the topic, aware that Crowley was confused by his long silence.

"It's quite all right," Aziraphale said happily. "I'd never been summoned before, quite a new experience. It was rather interesting being a serpent for a while. Felt remarkably pleasant, all those little spine bones. No wonder you enjoy snake form so much. And then, it has been ages since I held a sword, and the fangs were rather fun, too. I had some rather fascinating conversations with the wizard about his grimoire collection."

"That's good." Crowley grinned at him in response to the alcohol-loosened chatter. His sharp-toothed smile close and intimate in this position, smelling sweetly of spice, flickering in the torchlight like -- well, like a demon. Demonic flickering. Crowley hadn't bothered to cover his eyes to hide them from the humans in this dim light, and they glowed softly. "Knew you'd do a better job of being me than I do. Besides, the guy was using the _Pseudomonarchia Daemonum_ and I couldn't resist asking you to be part of the _soixante-neuf_.2 Bit of an existence-long dream of mine, really."

 _"You_ should not be here," Aziraphale said primly, pretending not to understand, let alone react to, what Crowley was implying. "The whole point of wassailling the orchards is to scare evil spirits away from the trees."

"I'm not into cursing crops. Banish me if you feel you're up to it." There was no worry in Crowley's voice

"I suppose I ought to, really," Aziraphale said, and tightened his grip around the slender waist. The alcohol in the wassail really was going to his head.

The group paused in the next orchard, an apple one. The Wassail Queen was hoisted up into the tree, giggling as she placed wassail-soaked toast in the boughs. From the hysteria of her giggling and unsteady perch, rather more wassail had been going into her stomach than into gifts for the trees. The Wassail King led the singing, also rather slurred and gay by now, as Aziraphale silently blessed the orchard.

> Apple tree, apple tree,
> 
> we all come to wassail thee,
> 
> Bear this year and next year to bloom and to blow,
> 
> Hat fulls, cap fulls, three cornered sack fulls,
> 
> Hip, Hip, Hip, hurrah,
> 
> Holler boys, holler hurrah

Crowley was singing along, his tongue hissing the esses and his voice off-key, and there was something so dear about hearing that imperfect voice, half human and half serpent. Had Crowley ever sounded half so joyful when he was singing the praises of the Almighty in a perfect angelic tongue? It was hard to imagine that he ever sounded so lovable in Heaven. Aziraphale's dearest friend, his Serpent.

Perhaps it was the cider, or the singing, or all the blessings he had been performing this night, but Aziraphale felt golden and warm and blissful. He turned, wanting to tell Crowley so, perhaps make it more acceptable to Up There with a little homily on the goodness and virtue of companionship.

He realised Crowley was not watching the Waissal Queen, but the angel by his side. Crowley's expression was laid bare without tinted glasses. Laughing, fond, and...

The love in the atmosphere gathered and bloomed and seemed to make the golden eyes glow. A tongue, surely slightly forked, flickered out briefly -- nervousness? Wetting his lips? Or, and Aziraphale's stomach dropped and roiled with almost nauseating happiness at the thought, _tasting_. Tasting the scent of Aziraphale, the blood and breath and sweat of this human-like corporation, on the air.

"Aziraphale," Crowley said, and it was a complete sentence. Hearing Crowley say his name like that felt like--home? Was that what home was? Not Heaven and its endless boredom, not a place to store books, but a cloaked serpent saying Aziraphale's name in a particular way.

After all, other humans were laughing and kissing in inebriated celebration around them, at least some of them snatching forbidden love under the excuses of the festival. Why not...

Aziraphale pressed his mouth up, deliberately laughing, deliberately casual, and the pressure of lips against his was brief but oh so sweet, Crowley's lips pulling at his for one moment as if compressing centries of longing into one quick slide of mouth over mouth, one brief stolen (and surely no one would notice, neither Heaven nor human) touch of tips of tongues against each other, hidden secretly by their parted lips.

"Happy Twelfth Night, my dear boy," Aziraphale said.

"You taste of pears again. Why do you always taste of pears?"

"It's the wassail," Aziraphale said, the words coming as if from a long way away, when all he was really conscious of was burning gold eyes and the shadow of the touch of lips and tongue on his own, the arm still across his shoulder, the waist still in his grip.

There was a squeal and the Wassail Queen crashed down from the tree. Her followers shouted with glee. Aziraphale turned, ready to discreetly fix any broken bones, and the arm around his shoulder slipped away. Aziraphale turned too late, and Crowley was already lost in the crowd, detectable only by that surge of love around him.

"Looks like your lady-love had cold feet," grinned a red-faced, red-haired farmer. "That or she wants you to follow her to the bedroom."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken. He's hardly my lady-love," Aziraphale said vaguely. Surely -- no. Crowley was being sensible and leaving. He couldn't expect, wouldn't expect, Aziraphale to follow, to the bedroom of all things. A stolen drunken kiss was one thing. Anything else went beyond the bounds of friendship with a counterpart. "Just an old friend I haven't seen in a long while."

"Christmas is the season for reuniting old friends," the farmer said cheerfully.

"Yes," Aziraphale said. "But it's nearly over."

He had long loved Twelfth Night, the final revelry before the festivals ended. He had missed it under Puritan rule. Now, the thought of things coming to an end ached.

The year was nearly over, at least as this particular group of humans reckoned years. One year among thousands.

 _And the years of the Earth shall number six thousand._ How many had it been? Surely, not that many. He and Crowley would be on opposite sides eventually, but not yet, not yet. And then --- well, God could be a bit tetchy at times, but once everything was settled, it would be remembered that they were all God's creatures, even the demons. The Rebellion would be sorted out, and everything would be perfectly pleasant.

The two of them had plenty of time for this strange friendship of theirs.

Aziraphale went back to the inn where he was staying, and tried to write his report. He was unable to concentrate on anything but the taste of pears in his mouth.

1 Hard pear cider to we plebs. ↩

2 The _Pseudomonarchia Daemonum_ was published in the sixteenth century as an appendix to a book, ironically, intended to disprove the existence of demons. It's probably an abridgement of a much older grimoire. It lists rituals to summon 69 different demons. And 69/ _soixante-neuf_ to describe a certain sexual position has been around since at least _The Whore's Catechisms_ in 1790. I bumped it back a century and a bit ↩


	4. Time goes by so slowly for those who wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1811\. The Prince Regent holds a giant celebration to mark his father's birthday and show support for exiled French royalty. An angel and a demon have their own reasons for attending. There is forbidden fruit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to write a chapter about a birthday for my birthday in isolation. Hope you are all keeping well and positive.

Aziraphale was hot and bothered and disinclined to dance. Two thousand people, he felt, were far too many for a birthday fete, especially for a man too ill to enjoy it. He looked longingly at the Prince's table, where the ridiculous spectacle of a false canal, full of mechanical gold and silver fish, tinkled. At least it offered an illusion of coolness in all this heat. Real water and real fish would be better, but if he closed his ears and did a slight miracle to make the sound of all the humans go away, he could pretend he was back in Eden.

He hadn't thought of Eden in a long time. Why now? And then his sense prickled, a warmth entirely unlike the uncomfortable heat swept over him, and a voice said at his elbow, "That is a truly magnificent peacock feather. Haven't seen you in a turban for years, Aziraphale." Crowley flipped one of the long drapes of silk next to Aziraphale's face. "All these silks and velvets suit you."

"I do care about fashion," Aziraphale said a little pettishly, to cover his pleasure.

"A few years behind being truly modish, but not too bad. Turbans always did frame your face nicely." Crowley was looking fairly wonderful himself, his waistcoat made from some slinky red fabric that gave the impression of being rippling snake scales and accentuating his thin waist, face powdered pale and lips reddened. Still, Aziraphale disliked the way the suit made Crowley's shoulders look broader. It might be fashionable, but he missed seeing the real shape under the jacket, the thin, slinky serpentine body.

For some reason, Aziraphale's cheeks reddened at that, and he looked away, back at the table, heaped high with fruit both in and out of season.

"Trust you to find the food. Want some?"

"Supper is to be served at three. We can't just help ourselves."

"Wanna bet? Forbidden fruit, angel, kind of my thing." Crowley sloped over to the table, considered a pineapple and some peaches, and selected an apple with a grin. He tossed it to Aziraphale, and the angel automatically reached up and caught it. A pear followed, and Aziraphale found himself standing holding stolen bounty from the Regent's table.

" _Crowley_ ," he hissed, his cheeks darkening even further and looking guiltily around, a piece of fruit in each hand.

Crowley' grin became a full-on smirk and he went and took Aziraphale's arm. "Better get you out of here before a guard notices," he said innocently.

They wound their way out of the pavilion to the Grand Chamber. The stools around the edge of the dance floor were much in demand. A flirting couple perched on two, and then the surrounding guests got up and drifted away, and somehow no one took the seats. The two man-shaped beings settled in relative comfort and privacy, watching the dancers drift and spin down the elaborate chalked lines.

"Speaking of hair, Crowley, I haven't seen yours in a queue since China in the seventeenth century."

"Trying to court favour with the Prince and Duke of York. Orders."

"I thought he would appeal to you," Aziraphale said, a little coldly. Not that he suspected Crowley of any infatuations with humans, obviously. They died too quickly. But Crowley _had_ spent a lot of time with Edward II and Charles II, and Aziraphale had secretly reassured himself at the time that they were too, well, scrawny. The Prince Regent was just as decadent and amusing and good-natured towards those he loved as the former kings had been. However, he was already known as the Fat Adonis of Fifty, and if Crowley _had_ a type, which he certainly did not, it might possibly involve mature, sunny beings with full calves and soft bellies.

"Don't make me laugh," Crowley said, straightening his clothes. "Georgie-Peorgie's a great overgrown toddler. The worst of it is that he actually has brains and actively chooses not to use them. Most boring assignment ever. He's perfectly capable of excess, cruelty and vanity all on his own, I just take notes and file the reports." Aziraphale's happiness shamelessly blossomed at Crowley's dismissiveness. Then Crowley's brow creased. "I've about had it with this century. The fourteenth was bad enough. I need a nap."

Aziraphale felt like his happiness had been ripped off the stamen and crushed carelessly under a demonic foot. Living near each other in London, having all kinds of reasons to run into each other, meeting up to feed ducks and exchange notes and ending up drunk in the bookshop had been a little slice of -- well, not Heaven. Heaven was never as interesting as this, or had the warm assuring feeling of being loved. Heaven wouldn't understand why that was to do with a demon. Aziraphale reminded himself that it was all in the Almighty's plan. They wouldn't have met, wouldn't have loved, Crowley wouldn't have been there to save him in the Terror in She hadn't willed it. Her wheels kept turning.

He would prefer Crowley not to take another long nap.

"Didn't think this was your kind of scene, Aziraphale. Wouldn't you be happier in your bookshop than a birthday party that is more of a "hurry up and die" party for the poor old boy? And surely this ageing banty of a Prince is not your idea of pleasant company. Don't get ideas of being a Principality and influencing him and the nation in the direction of virtue. Can't be done. Let him drink himself to death and hope young Charlotte does better."

Aziraphale pursed his lips in pain and disapproval. "I have my reasons for attending."

"Anything I can help you with?" Crowley's voice was elaborately casual, tossing his apple from hand to hand, eyes apparently fixed on the dancers. Aziraphale could sense that, under the glass, they were looking at him, and hope rose in his heart. Maybe Crowley was looking for a reason to stay awake. The Arrangement might help.

"This party," he said carefully, "is also in support of surviving French royalty. They requested I attend. Oh, don't grin at me like that." He could feel the heat creeping down his back.

"Crepes and brioche." Crowley bit into his apple. "Some of the escapes were truly miraculous."

"I don't like to take sides in petty human conflicts, you know that."

"Huh. Still got me working on the side of the bloated aristocracy, it seems. I suppose my lot like that anyway."

"I was under the impression my rescue was purely personal."

"It was." The love around them surged up, golden and sweet. "Can I have a bite of that pear?"

Aziraphale passed it across, his hand shaking slightly. _You taste of pears._ Of course, they were just fruit. Didn't mean anything.

Crowley tossed him the apple with a wink, and then raised a hand. Champagne was placed in it by a rather confused servant who had been taking it elsewhere. Crowley dug long and sharp nails -- and surely they had not been so dark, so demonic, a few moments before? -- into the pear's green skin, juice beading where they cut in. Through the heavy smells of perfume and powder and human sweat, Aziraphale could smell the clean light smell of the pear juice, he was sure of it. Like a ray of pure sunshine in this human decadence. Like love radiating from a demon.

Crowley sliced a mouthful of pear from the fruit, and dipped it in the champagne. When he pulled it out, tiny sparkling bubbles clustered on it. They would fizz on the tongue, like sweet seafoam. Aziraphale's mouth watered.

"Want a taste?" The tone was casual, but Crowley's long teeth pulled on his lower lip in as if the demon couldn't help it, just at the thought of Aziraphale biting the fruit..

Two centuries, nearly, since that stolen kiss in the orchard. Aziraphale had tasted his tongue then, just for a moment, sweet with Perry and such a soft thing for a demon to have in his mouth. What would it feel like with champagne bubbles on it?

It wasn't as if the act of kissing was illegal, even in this time and place. And Heaven could never tell, not in this ridiculous crowd and press of noisy humans.

He let the pear be pressed to his lips and took a bite. It did fizz, and was sharp and sweet. An embarrassing whimper escaped his lips, and Crowley's touched the tip of his own lips with his tongue.

"Who's your companion, Ezra?" The man's tone stressed the word suggestively, or perhaps it was just the French accent.

The Duc de Enghien had come off the dance floor with a girl young enough to be his daughter or even granddaughter, clinging to his arm in a very unfilial way. He raised an eyebrow, looking from one to the other.

"He's not my companion. I would never -- such a thought!" Aziraphale drew himself up in offence. "I never met him before, and he obviously thought..."

"He looked hungry for something," Crowley said smoothly. The sharp planes of his face were relaxed with amusement. Blast the snake, he actually seemed to enjoy being denied. It made Aziraphale feel he had made himself ridiculous. "Hullo, Sophie."

"Hullo Alexis,"1 said Sophie, her broad accent odd in this privileged room. "Fancy you knowing Louis-Henri's friend."

"Our hero here is worth the acquaintance," the Prince said benignly.

"Do you know, I think I will get to know him better," Crowley said. "Come with me, sir..."

"I am just Ezra Fell," said Aziraphale, coldly. "Your Serene Highness, Miss Sophie, if you will excuse us."

He let Crowley bear him off despite the clear amusement of the equally mismatched couple.

"That's Sophie Dawes," Crowley said under his breath. "A protege of mine. Found her in a brothel and noted her potential. She'll have a title by the end, mark my words.2 Although her end is down there with my lot. Wicked through and through," he said fondly.

"Don't you ever feel bad about how they end up?" Aziraphale thought of the girl, her flashing eyes and soft double chin and cuddly prettiness, and wondered if he was asking for reassurance.

Crowley looked startled, then thoughtful. "Nah. Free will, isn't it? Just doing my job, just like you. And Hell isn't so bad. Demons have no idea how to torture non-corporeal souls, the humans just pretend to be tortured so Dagon doesn't feel let down. You're the one who should feel guilty, condemning them to an eternity of boredom in Heaven."

Aziraphale didn't really have an answer to that, so he snorted instead.

"You realise," he said, as they made their way down miraculously empty passages -- and oh, the relief to be away from the crows and music, only Crowley's cool presence by his side -- "that they think you are bearing me off to--"

"To what?" Crowley's hands were cupping his jaw and his face was very close and Aziraphale was conscious of the heavy feeling of time stopping. Aziraphale had a moment of horror that Gabriel or someone would investigate the miracle and found out he wanted to kiss a demon so much time had stopped in its tracks, then realised it was Crowley, not him. No one would check on Crowley. He was safe.

Crowley wasn't kissing him. Crowley was close enough that Azirphale could see those huge, round eyes watching him from behind the tinted glass. The twist of the beautiful long mouth was teasing, tempting, but the eyes were earnest, almost pleading, and the love pulsed around them.

Crowley was waiting for Aziraphale to choose. So he chose.

He brushed their lips together softly, feeling Crowley's part then, as before, gently touched their tongues together. Aziraphale prepared to draw his head back, the token given, the reassurance that whatever he said, whatever he did, there was unspoken love there.

Crowley made a sound, a whiny desperate sound that held Aziraphale in place more securely than any angelic bonds could have, and pushed his tongue against Aziraphale's, pushed it deeper again, long languorous and somehow vulnerable intrusions into his mouth. Wet and cool, so cool, but it sent heat rushing through the angel and -- oh, this human corporation, was it the corporation's fault? Because this was no comradely kiss, they were plastered together, and he felt like he was drinking from Crowley's tongue, his arms going frantically around the demon's neck as if they could somehow disappear into each other if they kissed enough.

Crowley was making more sounds, or perhaps Aziraphale was, he couldn't tell. There was a lean thigh pressed between his and he _ached_ , he wanted to press hard to relieve this awful, terrible, wonderful tension, and all he could think was _You, you, you. Kissing. Me. You, you._ He rocked slightly, and that _was_ him gasping, and wordless syllables were spilling into his mouth with the kiss.

By the time Crowley released the kiss, Aziraphale's mouth was aching with being pressed open and kissed so deeply for so long. How long? Not a human space of kissing time. He wanted it to ache more, he wanted it to be kissed again, be devoured, he wanted to fall to his knees and feel that ache wrapping around the hardness pressing against his hip and--

What the Hell was he thinking? And it _would_ be Hell for him. Hell, and changing his place in the Plan. Giving up everything he had worked for, tossing aside all the suffering he had seen as if it was pointless.

"Zirapppppphale." It was a long hiss in his ear, and it was everything, temptation and frustration and friendship and desire and loneliness and love, oh, love, as if reflected from his own heart. "Why? You're a bloody angel. You're so annoying, you drive me mad. So why, why only you?"

A bloody angel. That was what he was. Time to be one.

"I don't know, dearest. She must have meant something by it."

" _Fuck_ Her. Don't talk to me about plans, this is about me and you!"

"Crowley, don't." Fear was crashing down around him, almost drowning out the golden love. "Time doesn't affect Her. She can hear."

"Let Her!" Crowley shook his head suddenly. "No, wait. You're still afraid of Falling. It's not that bad, angel. It's not. I mean, there's the ordinary everyday fear of being punished and tortured, but I'm not half as afraid of that as you are of turning in a bad report. I don't know what they do to you up there these days, but you are a wreck sometimes, I could go up there and blast them all for hurting you like that. If you Fell I'd have a half-decent chance of protecting you, the Big Boy likes me, and..."

" _Crowley, stop it._ "

Crowley's blabbering trailed off into a session of incoherent frustrated noises. The demon shook his head and tried again. "You must know that I--"

" _Stop it._ " Aziraphale's voice was high and tight with fear.

Crowley shook his head as if clearing it. "Right. Right. Ssssssorry."

"Don't hiss at me!" Aziraphale was close to tears. "Dear boy, I don't have a choice. I shouldn't have kissed you."

"No." It was like shades slamming down over his face. "No, I suppose not. Well, I'll see you around. Anything I can help you with, as per the Arrangement, you know where to find me."

"I don't, actually. I have no idea where you live."

"Oh. Well, I know where the book shop is. If I ever get the desire for some light reading matter. Or some pears."

" _Crowley._ "

He was gone. It took Aziraphale a few moments to realise that Crowley had stopped time for him, too, while he left. Shouldn't have been possible, a fallen angel affecting an angel like that, but perhaps he had ceded some power to Crowley long ago. Demons were like that. They took. Aziraphale shouldn't forget that because of a pretty mouth and earnest eyes.

He searched among the crowds and the noise, but he didn't find the demon again.

1 Crowley is temporarily naming himself for demonologist Alexis-Vincent-Charles Berbiguier de Terre-Neuve du Thym. ↩

2 Sophie Dawes, daughter of a fisherman, raised in a workhouse, did indeed become a Baroness after her lover educated her and passed her off as his natural daughter. Poor Louis-Henri, later the Prince of Conde, died by suicide/murder/autoerotic asphyxiation after willing her a fortune but tiring of her. There was an investigation, but Sophie got off. ↩


	5. The Devil has the smartest shoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1981\. Aziraphale is dealing with the Mob, and Crowley comes to the rescue.
> 
> Featuring Crowley in some really fantastic punk fashion, John from Come Inside Books next door, and more pear-flavoured kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay on this one, guys. The main reason was the very silly one that I hadn't planned a time period for this one, and just couldn't decide... until the overwhelming need to imagine Crowley dressed as a Thatcher era punk hit me.
> 
> Title is from a line in _Shiny Shoes_ , from the (in)famous _The Goodies_ episode _Punky Business / Rock Goodies / Punkerella._ Rest in Peace, Tim, who we lost to C-19. Your comic genius was such a part of my childhood.
> 
> cw: passing period typical homophobia and a mild slur.

Aziraphale felt strongly that a Principality should be sweet-tempered and patient with humans, children that they were. It would be a lot easier if human children didn’t keep trying to strong-arm him into selling his shop.

The negotiator had a toothy smile like an American film star and expensively blow-waved hair, and was accompanied by two broad-shouldered men who didn’t smile much at all, but walked as if they had more weight on one hip than the other. Aziraphale wondered if they had watched one too many American moving pictures. Still, he knew better than to dismiss them for being theatrical. Whether it was guns or coshes, it could all add up into unpleasant paperwork.

He was weighing up how much unwanted attention from Gabriel hitting them with divine revelations would take when a thin figure eased into the room.

Aziraphale blinked. Crowley refreshed his fashion quite often, but this was a dramatic difference from the last time he had seen him, a few weeks ago. His hair was still long and straight, but now it was shaved except for the very centre, which stood up in narrow spikes of vertical hair from his forehead to his nape. Aziraphale had no idea if it was hair product or miracle holding it in place. Chains draped from one nostril to a large safety pin through an earlobe and… Well, Crowley always wore black. It just gave the impression it was more black than usual, especially where it was ripped to reveal pale skin. Spikes glimmered on his knuckles and around his thin wrists.

“Oi, you bovverin’ my mate?” the demon demanded. Aziraphale wondered that the rest of the room couldn’t feel the protective blast of love filling the shop, or his heart flooding with light in response. Crowley was so ridiculous, so dashing, so utterly sweet.

The estate agent looked between Aziraphale, fluttering his hands in beautifully tailored beige, and Crowley, who was wearing enough makeup to outfit an entire music hall chorus line. His brow wrinkled in confusion as he tried to work out some kind of world in which they were close.

Crowley swaggered forward. Or tried to. At some point, he had apparently decided that high-heeled snakeskin boots chained to each other by the ankle were the height of practical footwear, and Aziraphale had never been very good at keeping the floor clear of stock.

Aziraphale blinked, and Crowley miraculously regained his balance without pitching head-first into one of the bodyguards, who were shifting uncertainly. The angel felt that an inadvertent head-butt wouldn’t help the situation particularly.

“No one is bothering me. Is it Anthony or Tony today?”

“A.J.”

“A.J.” Aziraphale tasted the name in his mouth, a little distracted by Crowley’s outfit. “These gentlemen were just leaving. My dear, surely you’re not wearing a bin liner as a shirt.”

“Great, innit?” Crowley preened. “Tends to tear a bit, though. Haven’t figured out how to stop the safety pins ripping it. Makes it less sweaty, I s’pose.”

“It would take a miracle.” Aziraphale gently mimed a finger snap.

“Nah, that would spoil it. Gotta be DIY.”

“We don’t mean no harm to your boyfriend,” said one of the bodyguards, interrupting at last. “We just want him to see sense about selling his shop.”

“ _Selling_ his _shop_?” Crowley’s mouth twisted, and he dropped his new accent in his horror. “Where will he store his books? My flat isn’t that big. And he leaves papers and pens everywhere, just look around.”

“Yeah. Regular fire trap,” agreed Crowley’s new friend. “Irresponsible, that’s what it is. Could burn down any day now.”

“No, that’s not going to happen,” Crowley said easily.

“Why not?”

“The only way this shop is burning down,” Crowley confided, “is if you three gentlemen burn with it. I can see a lot of burning in your future, keeping on your current ways. Burning for a very, very long time.” His voice became more velvety with every word, black and soft and enticing, but with flame crackling around it. The men shifted uneasily.

“You wouldn’t want that,” Aziraphale said, wagging a finger kindly, and trying not to swell Crowley’s head with an infatuated stare. “So you should just take my friend’s advice and rethink your ways before you find yourself really regretting it. He knows what he’s talking about.”

“I don’t like punks.” The second bodyguard had apparently found his words. “They smell funny.”

“That would be the brimstone,” sighed Aziraphale. “You get used to it.”

“Only takes an eternity or so,” Crowley said in his menacing velvet voice, then turned to Aziraphale. “What do you _mean_ you get used to it?”

“Nothing at all.” Aziraphale glanced away, flushing slightly. He was finding the safety pin in Crowley's earlobe oddly interesting. He kept wondering what it would feel like to Crowley if he tugged on it gently.

“This cologne is very expensive, you know. If you didn’t like it, you could just tell me.”

“Are you quite sure you are fully committed to the punk aesthetic? Shouldn’t you smell of garbage or something?” Aziraphale said, trying for a distraction.

“I leave that to Hastur.”

“Point conceded.”

"I don't like fucking punks," said the second bodyguard, stubbornly trying to make his point.

"As if you had any chance with me anyway," said Crowley, never one to let a good opportunity slide by. "I prefer pretty blonds." Aziraphale was almost sure that behind his round-framed sunglasses Crowley was batting his eyes. He tried to control the twitch of his mouth.

"Nothing wrong with punks," said the first bodyguard. "They just pissed off about all this unemployment shit going around. And some of the music's cool."

"It's shite," snarled the other. "Hasn't got any tune or beat to dance to. And 'alf of them are knob jockeys. Look at this one."

The negotiator flickered his gaze from one of his guards to the other and started to edge towards the door. The other two were glaring at each other too hard to notice.

"My nephew's gay," said the first, in ominous tones. His huge hand started to flex at his side. "Want to think about what you just said?"

Crowley lifted his glasses, just for a second, and sent Aziraphale a flicker of a wink. Aziraphale tried not to smirk back. He was sure he shouldn't enjoy seeing Crowley in demonic action inciting discord, but after all, it was in his defence.

"Look, mate, I got nothing against your Rob, and you know it. Just trying to get Teddy Boy here to see sense and this smelly punk rocked up looking for trouble."

"I'm starting to take this personally," said Crowley, trying to surreptitiously sniff under his armpit. "It's the plastic, isn't it?"

"You smell marvellous," Aziraphale said valiantly. The door chimed gently, allowing the negotiator back on the street. "My dear, I appreciate your help as always, but I really would prefer not having fisticuffs on my premises."

Crowley pouted black-lipsticked lips. Before he could say anything, the door rang rather more loudly, and John from the spicier bookshop next door, Come Inside Books, entered.

"Morning, Ezra, I— You!" His round face flushed with fury. "I'm calling the cops if you don't back off."

"I haven't done anything!" protested Crowley. "Just because I keep up with yoof subculture."

"Not you. Them. Fell's a nice old bloke, I'm not putting up with you harassing him _or_ me. I'm going to call the police."

The bodyguards turned away from their brewing fight, and towards John. "That's not very respectful," the proud uncle said thoughtfully. He punched the palm of his hand and stepped towards the newcomer.

"You don't scare me," said John, obviously lying.

Aziraphale weighed up the chances of getting away with a miracle in front of three humans and a demon. He sent a pleading look like Aziraphale just as the man blessed with a nephew drew his fist back and John took a nervous half step back.

Crowley nodded and slipped serpent-fast between the men. The punch bounced harmlessly off the air close to his head, but he was obviously distracted by his own smugness, because a kick from the other man knocked one foot out from under him. The chain between his boots yanked, and Crowley toppled to the floor.

Grinning, the man drew back his leg to kick Crowley in the head, and without thinking it through, Aziraphale punched him in the gut.

The bodyguard flew back against the shelves and hit them hard, as Aziraphale belatedly remembered he had forgotten to hold back on his angelic strength enough.

"I think you should all leave now," he said, thoroughly embarrassed. "John, thank you for your assistance. I'll drop in for a cup of tea later, and we'll discuss what to do about this. Goodbye, everyone, out you go. No, not you, Crowley."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Crowley's voice was hushed.

The three men filed out, and Aziraphale went to the door and made sure John made it back safely. He would have to go do some miracle work to fix things up later.

He set the shop sign to _Closed_ before he turned back, only to find slender arms around him and a face pressed against his.

"My hero."

"Don't be ridiculous." The nose chains were pressing uncomfortably into the side of Aziraphale's face. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to mind.

It was imperative that he didn't hold Crowley back, he told himself. The second half of this century had been good to them, as the understanding reached in the forties had been made stronger when he had yielded and trusted Crowley with the holy water in the sixties. They had never seen each other so often, and with fewer excuses. It was vital that they kept the understanding and didn't push past it. Not until he understood what She had meant by making them love each other like this.

His arms had curled around a thin back almost of their own volition. The bin liner did feel quite strange, but beneath it was Crowley.

"Your hair is quite fetching," he said absently, resisting the urge to nuzzle against the fine revealed contours of the scalp. "I haven't seen your head shaved like this since..."

"Since King George's birthday party," Crowley said.

"Yes. That."

"The last time we kissed."

" _Crowley._ Don't."

"You forgot, you know."

"You know I wouldn't forget." He couldn't help the way the words came out.

"Not that. When that bloke called you my boyfriend. You forgot to say you weren't. Slipping up in your old age."

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say, and because he was drowning in the love pulsing in the room.

Crowley chuckled, although there wasn't much humour to it. "Know why I dropped by?"

"To show me your dashing new look?"

Crowley laughed again, and this time it was suspiciously snuffly. "New restaurant near my place, thought you'd like to try the vanilla-poached pear flamb _é_."

This was the point where Aziraphale should pull away, in case he was caught doing something too hard to explain. Bad enough that he had punched a human over a demon. Even worse standing in his embrace. There were lips sticky with makeup moving over his face, trailing kisses, the strange feeling of a nose with a ring in it pressed slightly flat against his face, and there was no way he could explain away turning his face so that his mouth met Crowley's.

So few kisses since Eden. Aziraphale could count them on one hand. But the tongue sliding into his mouth was still deliciously familiar, as if it had been made to kiss him. It _had_. He didn't understand why, he just had to have faith there was a reason for this.

He tilted his head back more, opened his mouth wider, kissed back fully and unhesitatingly, pouring everything he felt into it. If he was going to allow this kiss, he might as well kiss Crowley _properly._

"Angel." Crowley's voice was shaking. "You still taste of bloody pears. How is that even possible?"

Aziraphale waved vaguely towards his desk, where a jar of pear drops stood. Crowley looked blankly at it, then suddenly they were both laughing, clinging together, tears on their cheeks.

"I should go, love," said Crowley.

Aziraphale was overwhelmed with gratitude, for Crowley, for Crowley understanding and not pushing. Maybe he would Fall. It seemed more and more likely, day by day. But he wasn't ready yet. He kept hoping that God would reveal herself, make sense of all this. _It'll all come out in the wash,_ Aziraphale thought hysterically.

"I thought you had plans, for lunch. Poached pears, you said. You promised."

"I suppose I could manage that," Crowley said.

" _My_ hero." Aziraphale grinned to himself, realising how ridiculous they would look, Crowley in his ripped drainpipes and plastic and piercings, him in his immaculate suiting. He didn't care at all.

"Go wash your face first. Right now you look... you look like you're mine."

Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment. God could hear everything, even whispers. But God already knew his heart. And if Heaven were watching now, what difference could one more thing make? One more moment risked before going back to plausible deniability.

"I am. I love you so much, dear heart, and I always have." He slipped away, and upstairs to the hidden room of his rarely used bathroom, Crowley's love pounding over him like a tsunami, the sound of Crowley make a succession of inarticulate noises like music in his ears.

In front of the mirror, he looked at himself. Tears and black lipstick smeared all over his face. How Crowley stopped his makeup ending up a mess was beyond him. Aziraphale gently ran his fingers over the streaks on his face, and then mopped them away, the human way.

His demon was downstairs waiting to take him to lunch, and that was enough. For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for your patience with this one! Only the post-canon Happily ever After to go, and hopefully much less of a wait.


	6. South Downs Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Adam's last summer as the Antichrist. More pears, more kisses, an ending which is a beginning.

The few times Aziraphale had allowed himself to dream of freedom, of being able to love openly, his imagination had gone to frantic desperate places. Crowley had so much banked fire, for all his deliberate gentleness. Surely it would explode into passion now.

Now they were free, they held delicately apart, as if afraid of bruising each other. They hadn't touched since they had resumed their own forms, beyond a brush of sleeves stepping into the restaurant, but almost that was too much to bear. The world felt drenched in light, in steady, beating love. It was enough, almost too much, to be able to _look_ , to gorge himself on the faint hollows of Crowley's cheeks and the shadow under his mouth, the sinews of his neck and the shape of his jaw. Not have to glance away, not have to look down at his food or away to the walls to excuse his fascination. To be able to look forever, openly and lovingly, if he liked.

Crowley insisted on ordering for them. Aziraphale tasted the apple foam on his crab, the tartness melting away on his tongue.

"An attempt at temptation?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, and Crowley smiled. Not grinned, smiled, with undisguised fondness. For a moment Aziraphale wanted to push away from the table, forget anything, kiss that smile for the next six thousand years. But the slow golden feeling was still on him, the sense that this time was precious. No need to rush. Take it slowly, savour, there was all the time in the world. Years left, days left had become eternity.

Pre-dessert was compressed Pink Lady apple with apple and marigold sorbet, hazelnut caramel shining golden on top, and Aziraphale laughed aloud. Crowley's pleasure at his reaction was clear, his fondness, and they were leaning in together now, hands close on the table. Not touching yet. Close.

"So what's for main pudding?" Aziraphale asked, arching an eyebrow, and Crowley's lips quirked again.

"Chestnut Mont Blanc." Crowley was smirking more than seemed merited by the announcement. Still, his hand on the table was curled with tension. The combination sparked adrenaline through Aziraphale's body.

"How lovely." He kept his tone mild.

When the meringue arrived, it was filled with golden pear compote. Apples and pears. It felt like a proposal.

Aziraphale scooped the pear compote on a spoonful of the fragile chestnut shell. He kept his attention on Crowley as he bit into it.

Suddenly, it seemed, the time for waiting was over. "Let me take you home, angel," Crowley said, watching his mouth with fervent attention, as if he wanted to eat the pear from his mouth.

"I think that would be a good idea," Aziraphale said, as the world compressed to one bony, awkward, lovely demon and the taste of syrupy pear in his own mouth.

When they came out into the day, a perfect Summer day in a city that rarely had them, Aziraphale half-expected to be grabbed and have the taste of pears kissed out of his mouth. Instead, Crowley shoved his hands deep in his pockets, gave him an anxious smile, and headed back towards St James's Park

They weren't walking to Crowley's flat, then, close as it was. Heading to the book shop by Bentley, perhaps. Crowley, slothful as he was, had probably driven to the park to meet Aziraphale. Aziraphale was warmed a little by the thought that Crowley might think of his shop as home. Unless he had simply meant he was _taking_ Aziraphale home and not taking him home in the more intimate sense.

He was tangling himself up in knots. Crowley never interrupted or rushed Aziraphale's pudding if he could help it, dear boy that he was. The demon's love was still there surrounding them, more golden than ever, even if Crowley was waiting for him.

That was a thought. Aziraphale was a six thousand-year-old angel and he was perfectly capable of making the first move.

He reached out and tucked his hand into Crowley's elbow. Crowley didn't say anything. A human might have thought the hardening of his lips and drawing down of his eyebrows was a sign of displeasure. An angel could feel the responsive blossoming of love. Encouraged, he slid his hand down. There was an awkward moment when he reached where Crowley's wrist disappeared into his pocket. Fortunately, Crowley got the idea fairly quickly, and pulled his hand out of his pocket so fast there might have been a miracle involved.

They were holding hands. An angel and a demon, strolling down Marlborough Road like any other pair of lovers, unafraid of being seen together under the heavens. Crowley's palms were slightly sweaty and his grip was uncomfortably tight and his pulse was visibly flickering in his neck, but no human would see the intensity of his emotions. They wouldn't see anything other than a slightly odd couple, holding hands because they wanted to be in touch. As if it was nothing at all, not a grand blasphemy against the most sacred laws of Heaven and Hell.

Perhaps they too would get used to it soon. It might take a while. Aziraphale resolved to practice for a few hundred years at least.

Crowley had parked in the most conspicuous and illegal position possible in the Mall. They ignored the curious and resentful stares of passers-by. There was a difficult moment when they realised they had to release their hands to actually get in the car and stood dumbly staring at each other for a moment instead, but they figured it out eventually.

"Home," Crowley said again when they were in their sears. He stared out the front windscreen and made no attempt to start the Bentley. "Do you trust me, angel?"

Guilt clawed at Aziraphale. "I know I said some terrible things."

Crowley made a dismissive gesture. "Can't say I wasn't frustrated, but I never took them seriously, angel. I know you."

And it was a beautiful and terrible thing, being known, faults and all. Aziraphale swallowed. "I did mean it, that time I said I love you."

Crowley's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Then trust me. Let me take you home."

"Naturally," said Aziraphale, meaning take me home, love me, _anything._

Crowley's face lit up like the Fifth of November and his lip twitched. " _Naturally_. God, I am so hopelessly in love with you, you ridiculous bastard." He glared at the sky, and then flicked his eyes to the pale beige ground of the Mall outside the window. "Hear that? I love him and there's no bloody thing either of you lot can do to stop me."

"Kiss me?" Aziraphale asked, his voice tight and dry with nerves. He didn't care about tourists, about the parking inspector currently taking a deep interest in the car, in anything but that they had saved the world and Crowley hadn't kissed him again yet. _Yet._

"Not here," Crowley said. " _Home._ Trust me."

Aziraphale glanced at his hands folded nervously on his lap, thinking of all it implied that Crowley wanted to be alone to kiss him. Not to escape detection, now.

Just to be alone.

"I trust you completely, darling heart," he said.

Crowley mouthed wordlessly a few times, incomprehensible sounds coming out of his mouth, and then put the Bentley in gear.

Surprisingly few minutes of gritting teethed terror later, they were across the M23, which made Crowley shudder for some mysterious reason, and heading out along the A3. Aziraphale thought he should talk to Crowley about that sometime. He'd been so proud of his circle road.

"Where are we going?" Aziraphale asked at last, trying to focus on the scenery zipping by in horrifying flashes. "Oh, do slow down, dear."

"Petworth. Ghastly place. Barely recognises the twentieth century, let alone the twenty-fourth. Chock full of antique shops. Amateur dramatics and a town band. Has a funfair there every year for ages, haven't been to it since I turned up in the seventeenth century and it was closed because of the bloody plague. Still, might make it this November, just for the treat of seeing you on a hurdy-gurdy."

"It sounds appalling," said Aziraphale, who went to book sales and art fairs in Petworth at least one year in five, and had a favourite bakery.

"Yeah. Sort of stupid chocolate box place Turner liked." Crowley was visibly trying not to break into a manic grin. "You'll hate it."

"Hell in the South Downs."

"Well, where else would a demon settle?"

Aziraphale's breath was catching in his throat too much to breathe, and it wasn't even the unseemly speed. Less than an hour after leaving London, Crowley peeled off the exit and started down a maze of minor roads.

Finally, he turned down a sweeping drive and slowed. There were rolling green lawns and fields all around, mature trees, and ahead, a sizable cottage, looking for all the world like it was alone in the world, if its outbuildings didn't count.

"Thatched roofs are good for warmth, don't you remember?" Crowley said, so casually he was barely pronouncing anything. His hands were trembling on the wheel as he slowed the car to a stop. "There's underfloor heating, so you'll be nice and cosy in winter. The main library opens onto the conservatory, so you'll have to put up with me disciplining the plants in earshot."

" _Main_ library?" Aziraphale asked faintly.

"Well, I know what you're like, and I didn't need five bedrooms."

"How many did you keep?"

Crowley wet his lips with his tongue. "One. Needed the bookshelf space. But there's two bedrooms in one of the outbuildings if you'd prefer. Not that you sleep, but if you need the space. I mean, if you don't like it here, that's fine, too. Just thought. You could take a look. Ngk." He appeared to run out of babble.

"Crowley."

"Yeah?"

"When did you buy this?"

Aziraphale wouldn't have been surprised if, somehow, Crowley had miracled possession of the cottage out of thin air. Instead, he said, "Early eighties."

"Crowley."

"Stayed here a few times. Waited, you know. And imagined. I'm afraid some of the people around who were working on renovations here think I've got a husband with some weird old fashioned name. Bit eccentric, has a thing for books and bow ties. Complete angel, though. Don't know how they got the impression, really."

" _Crowley_." Aziraphale reached up and removed Crowley's glasses, and the demon turned to him and looked at him with a mixture of hope and terror as if Aziraphale was dangling the world in front of him and might yank it away at any moment. Aziraphale's eyes stung with tears.

"Yeah?"

"Show me around our home."

"Yeah. Right." Aziraphale wasn't the only one with tears.

Somehow, the tears dissolved into excitement as soon as their hands reached for each other. They ran over the house like children, Aziraphale exclaiming over each new delight, the blazingly blue kitchen filled with incongruously modern gadgets, the rooms lined with empty bookcases waiting to be filled, the places ready to put his treasures and collections of precious memories. Crowley beamed and smirked and tried to look like he wasn't about to burst with pride and happiness.

"Looks nice and neat now, until you get your filthy hands on it. Look, angel, proper surround sound in every room, although you can bring that old gramophone too if you want." Crowley shifted from foot to foot, bent and unbent his leg. "And. Um. The bedroom. It's the reason I chose this place really, that and the antique shops."

He led Aziraphale to the final bedroom. While Azirpahale was taking in the wide bed with black sheets, letting his imagination run wild, Crowley crossed quickly to the window and threw it open.

"See?"

The branches were laden with black pears. Crowley reached out and plucked one. "Nearly a century old, this tree. Had a bad case of fire blight when I found the place, but nothing a stern talking to couldn't fix."

"They're not in season," Aziraphale said vaguely.

"Yeah, well, I always agreed with the carpenter on the cheek of that. If I want fruit for you, the tree knows it damn well better produce it."

Aziraphale took the pear from him. It was hard, the skin a dull, mottled purple-brown. Not a juicy dessert fruit. Black pears were pears for long winters of suffering and deprivation, for sieges, for endurance. The flesh would be sour and gritty. But cooked properly, the sweetness would come out and be full and delicious on his tongue.

The blossoms would be beautiful in spring.

Aziraphale bit into the pear and chewed with deliberation. It was sour, yes, with a lot of bitterness, but he thought he detected a sweetness behind it, all the more precious for being hidden. The flesh where he had bitten into it was a creamy green. He thought wildly that the fruit just wanted to be appreciated, treated with care, loved, to reveal its full sweetness.

He put the pear down on the bedside table, stepped forward and put his arms around Crowley's neck. Ridiculous, long, awkward neck it was, with the adam's apple working in it, and Aziraphale wanted to smother it with kisses, suck on the skin.

He _could_.

"I love you so much," Crowley said awkwardly, hands back in his pockets, head turned away. "Always did. Didn't know why, seemed stupid, a demon loving an angel, but you were so _kind_ and it was like... like breathing. But we helped save the world, and maybe we get some reward. I love you and I want you and since that time at the party, I thought maybe you want me that way too, but if you don't, not in that way, that's all right too, but I like it when you hold my hand. And kiss me. Only an hour to London, the way I drive, and I could learn to cook for you." He seemed to run out of words.

Aziraphale stepped forward, cradled those dear cheeks in his hands, and kissed him as long and deep and fiercely as he knew how. Crowley didn't kiss back at first. His hands struggled out of their pockets and flailed a bit before settling on Aziraphale's shoulders, holding him tight as if afraid he would escape, then he was kissing back, hungry and desperate, as if he could devour all the love in Aziraphale's soul. Let him, Aziraphale thought wildly, let him have it all, there would always be more.

This was what was _meant_.

His body seemed to act on its own, backing towards the bed so that it hit him in the back of the knees, collapsing back onto it, dragging Crowley on top of him. His thighs moved of their own accord to cradle exquisitely bony hips, drag Crowley even closer. He could feel the heat through the layers of clothes as Crowley gasped and rocked against him.

"Didn't—didn't need to worry, I see," Crowley said when their mouths finally parted. "God, Aziraphale. Tell me you want me, tell me it's all right." He ground his hips down and it was so good, it was Aziraphale's own version of Heaven.

Crowley was his Heaven.

"I want you," Aziraphale said, "I love you," and he could say it forever.

* * *

"You can _join_ the amateur dramatics society if you like, but I'll be damned twice over if I go to any performances," Crowley informed him, as they walked down the High Street together. "I'm still having traumatic flashbacks to Warlock's party." Crowley's hand was curled tightly into his, fingers latched, and it was beginning to feel natural already, as if they had been linked together for centuries.

"Nonsense. It will be fun." Aziraphale gave a happy skip, and Crowley rolled his eyes. 

"Good morning, Anthony,"

called out a friendly voice.

Aziraphale expected Crowley to snarl, as he usually did when humans hailed him, but instead, he ducked his head to the old lady. "Hi, Mary. Lovely day."

"So this is your husband at last?"

For a second Aziraphale felt panic, the ingrained habit of denial. Then he lifted his chin.

"It's lovely to meet you, Mary. Yes, I'm his husband." He could feel the love from Crowley coming in great golden waves, but he wasn't drowning. He was breathing purely for the first time in his existence.

Aziraphale smiled. "I suppose you'll see us together rather a lot, now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to the dedicated reviewers of Trip Adviser, who explain exactly what a deceptively simple menu item like Chestnut Mont Blanc actually involves at the Ritz. (Pear.) And to Domain, with its lovely pictures of South Downs "cottages" that cost millions of pounds.
> 
> Love to you all, and thank you for indulging me in this unapologetic mush.


End file.
